Down
by wtfisaverage
Summary: He's a lost, wounded soldier and she's trying to reclaim the most precious thing she's ever lost.
1. Chapter 1

**Down**  
by wtfisaverage

Sam came back wrong. After two tours in Iraq, Ohio didn't make sense. Everything in Ohio was noisy and chaotic, but not in a way he understood. There were no schedules or commanders telling him where to go, what to do… who to be. Sam could shoot. He could break into any building and rescue civilians. He knew how to be a soldier. He accepted that to a select few he was a hero, but what he didn't know how to be was home. Once he got shot in the shoulder, the army pinned a star on him, packed him up and sent him back to Ohio.

It would've been fine if Sam had a family or an address. When Sam enlisted, he'd been 18 with an ID. There were no emergency contacts because there was no one to call. He'd been on his own since he was sixteen. He bunked with a few friends and stayed under the radar until he earned his diploma. The army was his only plan. He figured if he joined the army, he would belong to something. He would fight for his country and if he was lucky die for it. He never wanted to come back.

He didn't want to be this. A week had passed since he left the veterans army. His bandages were old and he was running out of cash. He had no more medication and had a slight fever. There wasn't enough money left for another night at the motel and whatever remained had to be used for food. He started walking and scoping the streets for places that looked warm and remotely accessible for the night. Passing an Italian restaurant, Sam saw a flier for a new exhibit at the local museum. It was a memorial exhibit for war veterans and entry was free for current and veteran National Reserve. Sam's interest peaked when he saw it was open until 9 pm which was late enough for him to find a hideout and sleep for the night inside the museum.

He changed into a hoodie and cap to look inconspicuous. His hair had grown past his ears and he had a slight beard. The worker at the ticket booth gave him a dubious glance, but allowed him in after a few moments of glaring at his ID and tags. The inside of the museum let him escape his worries for a bit. The fossils entranced him and the astronomy exhibit had him feeling like a starry-eyed, slightly feverish kid. It was light, fun, and informational. He was distracted and entertained by the videos feeding him facts. He burned to try the activity centers, but knew that would draw too much attention.

The WWI and II veterans' memorial was simple. It began as a hallway filled with mannequins dressed in uniform lined at attention on each side. Behind them black and white film images of war played.

They told him in the hospital to be careful of triggers. Certain sounds and images could send him mentally spiraling back to Iraq. He didn't feel that. The images of combat, the drawn faces of victims, the camaraderie between the soldiers, all of it made him sad. It grounded him deep into his reality. He was alone. He was alive and he had to live somehow. He went to the theater and sat for hours, letting the sounds of war lull him. Finally, when the crowds around him thinned and credits rolled on the last film, Sam ducked into a nearby closet. Once the museum closed, he went back to the veteran exhibit to a far corner where a life-sized dugout was built. Checking around, Sam didn't see any cameras. The museum still used the low tech noticeable ones that made sure people knew they were being watched. Crouching low like the children he'd seen earlier, Sam crawled inside using his good arm. With his legs tucked in for warmth and his back pack as a pillow, Sam fell asleep knowing the ghost of his brothers in arms kept him safe.

* * *

"I swear people are so nasty," Mercedes grumbled as she swept up the theater in the auditorium.

"Mercedes," her manager, Sarah, yelled down, "I'm going home for the night. Davis is here doing the night watch and he knows to look out for you. Please remember to lock up and do be extra careful to make sure the bathrooms are spotless. I heard a little boy had an accident earlier."

Rolling the eyes of her soul, Mercedes kept a straight face, managed a tight smile and said, "Sure, Sarah. No problem." Mercedes needed this job. It had taken a long time to get here and while being a night janitor was never in her plans, it was a step in the right direction. She needed the money and the stability. If she could show the state of Ohio she was responsible, maybe they'd let her see her son.

"Do not dwell, Mercedes," she ordered herself. "Just get through this shift and those bathrooms." Shuddering, she went to tackle the nastiness that was the museum at night.

On her break, she wandered through the museum looking at the exhibits. Her new favorite was the veterans' memorial. Being at the museum late at night, she had to entertain herself someway, so she flirted with the different mannequins.

"Well, hello Sergeant Johnson. You're looking well today," she greeted one. Giggling, she traipsed to another, huskily saying, "Corporal Mayes, I had a fantastic time the other night. We'll have to do that again sometime." Laughing at herself, she continued down the line until something caught her eye.

"What the hell," she mumbled to herself, walking towards the dugout. Mercedes could have sworn she saw a hand. Trying not to get too close in case Freddy, Jason or Dracula was in there, she leaned in and sure enough a hand was peeking out of the edge of the dugout. Not even contemplating getting down low to peek in, Mercedes went to the nearest closet and got a short ladder. Climbing up, she peeked over the edge and saw him.

He was dirty, scraggly, wounded and sleeping. He was balled up tight. His hair covered his face in oily, dirty strands. The hoodie had fallen from his wounded arm. She saw the filthy, brown bandage and could only imagine the infection spreading on that arm. Continuing her perusal, the dog tags around his neck let her know he was a soldier.

"Hey Mercedes," Davis the night security guard greeted her from the end of the hallway. Climbing down, Mercedes greeted the pot-bellied, balding brown man with bifocals.

"How are you, Davis?" she said, coming to stand in front of the dugout and blocking the exposed hand. She plied the guard with small talk as she frantically searched for an excuse to get Davis away from the sleeping soldier.

"Um, Davis," she asked, "do you mind walking me down to the basement for more bleach? I swear that basement's haunted, but I can't clean the bathrooms without it."

The old man agreed and the two made their way to the basement while Mercedes fought not to look back. When they came back upstairs and the guard left to finish his rounds, Mercedes ran to her locker. Grabbing her lunch bag and a few dollars, she went to the break room and the vending machine. Penning a quick note, she stuffed as much as she could inside the lunch bag and made her way back to the dugout. As quickly as possible, she bent down and pushed the bag inside the dugout. Then striving to put the soldier from her mind, she did the only thing she could do. She went back to work.

* * *

The security guard's whistling woke Sam. Even feverish and sweating, Sam didn't make a sound. He stayed as still as possible until the footsteps passed him and the hall was quiet for a few minutes. Stretching his body, he bumped into a lunch bag.

He began to sweat. He didn't want to open it. He didn't want it near him for so many reasons. Iraq taught him the most explosive bombs come in innocent packages. Baby carriages don't hold babies; they hold enough chemical to tear down a building. The lunch bag also let Sam know his location was exposed. Someone knew he was here. Someone invaded his space while he was vulnerable. His face was moist and dripping. Sam took deep breaths to calm down when he saw the note tucked into a side pocket.

The note read:

**Hi,**

**I'm the night janitor here and I saw you sleeping. Please don't worry. I'm the only one who saw you and I won't tell anybody. I left you some food and Advil to help with your arm. I wouldn't sleep in the dugout too long. The gallery preservers come in first thing in the morning, but there's a bunk bed in the basement. It's in a room in the back. No one goes there but me. I left the key in the bag. Take care of yourself. **

** -M**

Still a little wary, Sam unzipped the lunch bag. Reaching in, he grabbed the bottle of pain relievers and used his teeth to undo the cap. Dry swallowing three capsules, Sam used his good hand to explore the bag.

_Whoever M is should have packed for me in Iraq_, he thought pleased with the offerings. It wasn't much. It was only a few strips of jerky, almonds, a sandwich, fruit cups and trail mix, but it wouldn't spoil and it was high in protein. Feeling around the bottom of the bag, Sam found the key.

Hearing footsteps, Sam silently crouched low with his eyes on the opening.

"Come on, Miss Mercedes, I'll walk you out." Sam saw the security guard leading a young woman towards the door.

"Thank you, Davis," the curvaceous, brown woman replied. Sam couldn't see her face, but her voice was lovely. "You're a hero to all girl night janitors everywhere."

The old man cackled, "And how many do you know?"

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, "One so far. I guess that makes you my hero. Good night."

For a second, Sam glimpsed her. Her curly hair was pulled back into a ponytail that trailed down her back. She wore plain clothes, black sweater jacket, t-shirt and jeans with sneakers. Her eyes were big and she bit her lips.

As Sam allowed himself to fade into brief unconsciousness before he found the bed in the basement, he thought the army was right. Sometimes, angels do come to save you.

A/N: Practicing and getting some ideas out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Down Chapter 2**

Leaving the soldier bothered Mercedes. She tried to go home and relax, promising herself she would check on him the next day, but it felt wrong. As she sat beneath her covers, too tired to wrap her hair, she started to feel haunted by ghosts and fears that had everything and nothing to do with the soldier sleeping in the museum. He was just so wounded, poor and alone. "No one should be that alone," she mumbled into her cup, her first drink in six months.

Her loneliness began the day Mike enlisted. He was her Asian high school sweetheart, the boy who loved her and touched her from the inside out. His smile was everything and he could dance like no one she'd ever seen before. He made gravity look like a lie and physics was fiction when he performed. Above all, he loved his smile. No matter what happened around them or whatever he was doing, he saved a smile just for her. "It's because looking at you never fails to brighten my day, 'Cedes," he told her a dozen times. Their problem was money. There was none for college and Mike dreamed of enlisting in the Army to help pay for school. "I'll be able to make some money, get my education, come back and marry my girl," he told her when they lay together, bodies entangled in the backseat of his old car. Mike was a year ahead of her in school and his senior year flew by. The next thing she knew, they were at an enlistment center. He was hugging her and saying goodbye while she choked on the words announcing her pregnancy.

It was too hard to say.

It's why she didn't tell her mother until she started showing. It's why she couldn't tell him in any of the letters she sent or the few phone calls she received.

_I'm pregnant, Mike. We're having a baby._

The deafening lack of support bruised her spirits. Her mother was too ashamed to help a statistic. Her friends judged her for keeping her baby. Even her body betrayed her by being too slow to keep up in gym, too tired to study, and too busy growing a child to stay in school. Mike was far away and the communication was too infrequent to make her feel his love. Sure, her mother came to the hospital when the baby was born and she held little Isaiah and played with his toes and fingers. Yet, she made sure to say, "You better make a way to feed and take care of him. I ain't babysitting and I'm not supporting a child I didn't have. You laid down and created him. You take care of him."

Fine. She works two jobs to afford food, diapers and a babysitter. She cries at night because she can't afford to buy her baby shoes, but her mother wants help with the bills.

Fine. She takes up a night shift cleaning motel rooms and brings her baby to work. The skeleton crew doesn't tell on her. They let her keep him in a spare room from time to time. It's been two months since she's heard from Mike and Isaiah resembles him more every day. She loves her baby more than anything. His baby smell comforts her and his smile at the sight of her comes directly from his father. Sleeping, however, is hard because struggling has sapped her of energy.

Fine. She drinks alcohol to help her wind down. Why not? It works for her mother. Isaiah can crawl now and keeping him still during her night shift is not so easy.

Surviving off three hours of sleep a night is okay until the day she falls asleep. During her 15 minute break, she lies on the bed with him cuddling him close for a nap. That way she can finish her shift in peace while he sleeps. This is supposed to be quick, so she doesn't close the door. She has him in her arms, running her fingers through his baby curls and breathing in the scent of his baby powder. All she does is close her eyes. She didn't mean to fall asleep.

A police officer wakes her up. He's standing next to her manager, Paul. They tell her Isaiah crawled out of the room. He's fallen down a flight of stairs. He's alive, but badly hurt. The doctor isn't sure if the damage to his head and body was permanent. The Department of Children and Families would not let her hold him or see him alone. She could not take him home. On April 15th, two weeks before the anniversary of Mike's enlistment, the courts placed her child in foster care.

Spiritually, she was wounded. Her heartbreak felt physically real and her loneliness absolute. Nobody should be left with no one to turn to in times of need. No one should be that alone.

Sighing, Mercedes placed her drink down on the nightstand. Running her fingers through her curls, she came to peace with her decision. She was going to help him. Whoever that soldier was, she was going to help him get to a better place.

Getting out of bed and grabbing her keys, Mercedes began trying to figure out how.

* * *

Though his vision began to blur, Sam found the bed in the basement. His arm was sore and he knew his fever worsened despite the aspirin he took earlier. Lying on the cramped, musty spring mattress was a relief.

To entertain himself, Sam thought of his curvaceous, brown savior. _I'll call her Ms. Pretty_, he thought, smiling at his own whimsy. Sam was an equal opportunity lover. He liked what liked him, but she looked like a nice handful. Holding his throbbing arm, Sam wondered if she would like him if he only had one arm. "Oh yeah, I'm such a catch," he laughed hysterically, "horny, hungry, homeless and now handicapped to boot." His laugh quickly turned into a cough. Shuffling to get comfortable, Sam wondered what she thought of him. He certainly knew what he thought of her. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Sam began to sing an old song that came to him. He sang:

_You are so beautiful to me_

_You are so beautiful to me _

_Can't you see?_

_You're everything I hoped for_

_You're everything I need_

_You are so beautiful _

_To me_

Closing his eyes, Sam gave into his fever, but held on to the thought of Ms. Pretty.

* * *

Shaking her head at her impulsiveness, Mercedes pulled up to her job. "I am so going to be fired for this," she muttered under her breath as she went towards the back entrance. Squaring her shoulders and practicing her story if she was discovered, Mercedes walked up to the door. The day janitor was always leaving his key when he went for a smoke. To prevent from being locked out, he kept a spare under a handful of gravel covered by the milk crate he sat on during his break. Uncovering the spare key, she let herself into the building. Too afraid to turn on the lights, Mercedes tried to make her way in the dark. Crossing the basement, Mercedes saw of the sleeping soldier on the bed. He was shivering with fever. She took a step into the room when she knocked into a pail filled with cleaning supplies.

"Shit," she cursed, as the clanging noise seemed to echo in the building. Holding still, Mercedes winced as she listened for any oncoming footsteps. Looking towards the bed, she gasped to see it empty. Searching for the soldier, she looked to see him under the bed with his hands covering his head.

Holding her arms out, she said to him, "I'm here to help."

"_Help," was all Sam heard. In his head, he was back overseas. He heard the bomb go off and found cover liked he'd been trained. Feverishly straining to make sense of what was happening, Sam saw Ms. Pretty standing there. "Help," he heard again. Didn't she hear the bomb? He had to get her out of harm's way._

"We have to get you out of here," Mercedes said to the zoned out soldier. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was damp with sweat. Thankfully, she saw him start to come out from under the bed.

_Gathering his flagging strength, Sam knew he had to get her to safety. "I'll save you Ms. Pretty," he said to her. Adrenaline pushing his overheated body, Sam crawled out and tried to stand._

Mercedes rushed over to help him up. Pulling his arm over her shoulder, she said to him, "We have to get to my car. I'll take you to a hospital."

_Sam forced his body to move forward. He pushed his pain to the side and focused on his objective: get Ms. Pretty to safety. _

As Mercedes led them to her car, she heard him saying, "I'll get you to safety, Ms. Pretty. I'll save you." Figuring his delusion was the only thing keeping him moving, she fed into it, "That's right. I need you to save me soldier. Help me get to the car." To her amazement, he straightened and carried even more of his own weight. His arm tightened across her shoulders and he moved forward with pained purpose. "I'll save you," he said again, determination overtaking the weakness in his voice.

With difficulty, they made it to her car and sat him in the passenger seat. As she drove, he looked at her with unseeing eyes, feverishly repeating, "I'll save you, Ms. Pretty. I'll save you."

_A/N: meh, I'm still finding a flow. Thanks for the support._


	3. Chapter 3

**Down, Chapter 3**

"Hello! Earth to Mercedes." Mercedes woke from her daze as a hand waved in front of her face. Looking up, she gave a tired smile to her two classmates, Kurt and Santana.

"Hey guys," she greeted them as they took their seats at her table. Kurt was a dashingly skinny guy with a boyfriend he couldn't help dropping into every conversation while Santana was a Latina princess with a girlfriend she saved for every other conversation. The three of them met and became friends in night school for adults. All of them worked towards the same goal of gaining their GEDs.

"What's happening, chica?" Santana asked, leaning in for a small hug.

Mercedes wanted to tell them about the soldier from the last night, but she hesitated. When she pulled up to the hospital, the soldier was barely coherent. She ran towards his side of the car and opened his door. Grabbing his right arm, Mercedes tried to pull him out of the car. He wouldn't budge. Reaching up, she turned his sweaty face to hers and caressed his face. Trying to find some semblance of comprehension in his green eyes, she spoke slow and clearly, "Help me. We have to get you inside. Help me."

Somewhere deep down, he heard her. Groaning in pain, he moved from the car, but his strength must have given out because he fell. Mercedes caught him and struggled to help him up. Not knowing what to do, she yelled for help. What she couldn't forget was his arms encircling her and holding her and his whisper in her ear before the doctors and nurses came for him.

He said, "Please don't… leave, Ms. Pretty."

She left him, though. She had to go back to the museum and erase any trace of him being there. She retrieved his bag and made sure the extra key was put back in its place. She tried going back to the hospital to check on him, but he was still in surgery. Then, the sun came up and Mercedes had to force herself to commit to her day. She had a meeting with her counselor at nine, a short shift at her second job at noon and school at six. She shouldn't have had time to think of him, but she couldn't forget him. Instead of sleeping, she went through his bag trying to understand her mystery soldier. The X-Men comic book made her giggle. His sketchbook filled with heroes, characters and what she suspected were friends or fellow soldiers impressed her. She didn't look through all of it nor did she empty the full contents of his bag. What she truly searched for was in a side pocket. It was an ID with a clean shaven, short haired, green eyed man with a charming smile.

"Sam," she said aloud, "your name is Sam Evans."

Now, back in her class she struggled with how to explain these feelings to her two friends. She could have asked them how could she help Sam and maybe she would in the future. Instead, she said, "Nothing much" as she returned Santana's hug because she knew the answer. Right now, all she could do was give Sam the support she always wanted from a friend.

* * *

Sam woke up groggy and disoriented. Immediately, he saw the hospital room and knew he was under the influence of drugs. Gathering his senses, Sam worked to understand what bothered him. It was the absence of pain. For the first time since being shot in the shoulder, his left arm wasn't bothering him. He peeked down at it.

"No," he said in disbelief, reaching across his body with his right hand that was taped with monitor wires and an IV. His left arm was gone. They'd taken it. He rubbed his eyes, fighting tears. Many soldiers lost limbs. He'd seen it personally. _But how am I supposed to survive_? The thought echoed in his brain. It was hard enough to be in his circumstances, but now life just felt impossible.

"Good, you're awake," a soft voice said from the doorway. Sitting up straighter, Sam eyed the petite blonde doctor at the doorway. "I'm Dr. Fabray," she said, coming over to the bed. "I performed your surgery. I understand it's a huge adjustment, but it comes down to a decision between saving your arm and saving your life. When you arrived at the hospital, your arm was already infected and the infection was killing you."

_I wish you had let me die_. He didn't say the words, but both of them felt their weight in the room. Sam did have one question. "How did I get here?" he asked.

"The nurses say a woman brought you. That's all I know," Dr. Fabray told him. "A nurse will be here soon to check your vitals."

* * *

Mercedes struggled with her composure as she walked into the hospital. The nurses were nice once she explained who she was there to see. Finding Sam's room, Mercedes took a deep breath and walked inside. He appeared to be sleeping.

The first thing she saw was his arm or the absence of it. She felt sad for him, but no pity. Never pity. She'd brought him an Avengers balloon and his backpack. She sat in the visitor's chair and contemplated her soldier.

An hour passed and she brought her chair closer. Hesitantly, she reached for his hand. His hand was so much bigger than hers. She couldn't help but feel small when she clasped his palm. Unwilling to let awkwardness make her let go of him, she began to whisper her feelings to him.

"I always wanted a hand to hold," she said quietly. "I just wanted to know someone was there. Do you know it's impossible to hold your own hand? You can pat yourself on the back and even hug yourself, but you can't hold your own hand. It's like one hand will never fit inside the other." Sighing, Mercedes felt ashamed. "You'll have to forgive me, Sam. Here I am babbling about holding my own hand, when you sit here like this. I'm not always the brightest, but I'm here. I want you to know that even if you don't know who I am. I'm still here."

She reached out her other hand and held his hand with both of hers now. Looking up at his face, she saw his eyes were open. After her whispered confession, she didn't know what to say. She wasn't sure how much he heard.

Sam felt helpless and worse, hopeless. He had nothing, no money, no family, nothing that made a man a person and now he had one arm. He had to be nothing in front of her.

It was Sam who cut the prolonged silence with his own confession. "Why you? Why do you have to see me like this, Ms. Pretty?"

Mercedes didn't know if she should be offended or if she was unwanted. Apart of her was glad he "remembered" her, but he didn't sound happy to see her. _Should she leave? _Her instincts told her no. Her heart told her to be honest. "Because I won't leave unless you make me," she told him, unable to meet his eyes. "My name is Mercedes, by the way."

"Sam. I heard you say my name. Look, I can't … talk," Sam said to her. Between his arm and his history, Sam was tied up verbally. "I'm not… I don't…I just can't."

Mercedes nodded, eyes firmly on the sheets. When she felt his hand moving within hers, she prepared herself to leave.

"Don't," he whispered. Finding her fingers, he finished interlocking them.

_Don't leave me, Mercedes. I don't want to be alone_.

Eyes on hers, he saw her understand him. It was enough. That look kept sadness from engulfing him. It saved him from the darkness. It wasn't complete and it wasn't for forever, but Sam knew he would survive the moment with her here.

A/N: you guys are awesome. I appreciate the support.


	4. Chapter 4

Down, Chapter 4

"It's been 2 years since I've seen my son, Mr. Schuester. He's three now. When can I see him? When can I take my son home with me?"

Mercedes tried to stay composed. Sitting across from her DCF worker, Mr. Schuester, Mercedes refused to fidget. It took every day of the past two years to forge her composure. Acting irate, she'd learned, led to her being shut out. Too much remorse and he gave her pity, but no answers. Tears were unacceptable. A tall, white man with curly hair and brown eyes, Mr. Schuester only responded to calm and capable parents.

"Well, Mercedes," he started, peering over her file, "you've made some great strides. Your employers have nothing but good things to report. Your night school teacher says you're an attentive and bright student and only a few weeks away from getting your GED. You've kept your appointments with your counselor…" He trailed off thoughtfully.

"But," she prompted.

"You're so young, Mercedes," he looked at her. "You turn 20 later this year."

"I'm doing my part, Mr. Schuester. Yeah, I'm young, but I.."

"What? You're a high school out and a recovering juvenile alcoholic trying to be a young, single parent," he stated. There was no judgment in his gaze, just truth. "That's what you are on paper, Mercedes. It's what you're fighting against. I can get you supervised visits with Isaiah, but you have to keep working on who you are on paper. Earn your GED. Keep your jobs or even better, find a full time job and do well there. You're improving on paper, but you have a ways to go. We're getting there, Mercedes. Don't get discouraged."

_Deep breaths_, she thought. _Take deep breaths. Focus on the positive and don't cry._ "You said I could see him," she asked, grasping for the silver lining to Mr. Schue's message.

"Absolutely," he answered with a smile, "I'll have to be there of course, but we can schedule an afternoon visit with his foster mother. Congratulations, Mercedes. You're going to see your son."'

* * *

"Well, Mr. Evans," Dr. Fabray intoned, "you are healing very nicely. Although your wound was infected, we were able to close the site with minimal tissue removal. You've responded well to the medications and there's been no need to reopen the wound. Now, we have to discuss the next steps in your care. I can recommend your transfer to a center for disabled veterans or I can send you home. A nurse can come out daily to check on your bandage and then afterwards depending on the wound, a family member can take over. What are your preferences?"

"Dr. Fabray, I appreciate everything you've done for me," Sam looked her into the eyes and answered, "but you and I both know the disability centers for veterans are overcrowded and understaffed. I won't take necessary care away from the men and women who need it more than me."

_Veterans who want to live more than me_, Sam thought. "As for a home, I don't have one. In terms of a family, I don't have one of those either."

"Well, the nurses told me about a young woman who visits you every afternoon, maybe she"-

The good doctor stopped when she saw him shake his head. "She's not up for discussion, doc," he stated, "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to sign my release forms, you know the ones that say I acknowledge I left the hospital against the advice of my health care provider. That way you're covered and I'm nobody's problem."

Sighing, Dr. Fabray said, "Sam, I have to advise against this. Without proper care, you'll be dead in two weeks."

_I'm counting on it_, Sam thought. He never answered her, though. Sam held her gaze until she shook her head and left.

Later on Sam would find out convincing the doctor wasn't the problem. He had a war to win with Mercedes before peace could be had.

It started off innocent enough. Sam was deep in his thoughts trying not to watch the clock.

Watching the clock meant he was expecting something. He refused to admit it was Mercedes. So what he sat up straighter, ran his remaining hand through his hair and smoothed his covers? He wasn't trying to impress her. Impressing a girl meant he cared and Sam refused to care about anything or anyone. Especially, a brown eyed curvaceous goddess who made his upper lip sweat. So what she smelled like chocolate covered strawberries? It was only his favorite fruit. Whatever the case tried to be, Sam had a healthy case of denial going and he clung to it.

_Super glue,_ he told his heart, as she walked through the door smiling, causing the organ to flutter. Sam glared at the heart monitor daring it to beep out of sync. _You are super glue,_ he chanted internally. _Gorilla glue. Damn that man, be laffy taffy if you have to. Stay strong!_

It worked until she crossed the room, sat in the seat she'd occupied all week and held his hand between hers. Like clockwork, those Bambi eyes stared up at him and she said, "Hey Sam." From the past week, he knew she would stay until she had to go to work at the museum. If he couldn't or wouldn't talk, she was fine with that too. Eight days in a row, she showed up for him. That was eight times more than anyone in his life ever excluding his fellow soldiers. She didn't pressure him to talk and didn't mind if he sat there, hand held securely within hers, and drifted away in his thoughts. He didn't talk to her much. He didn't want to know about her life or her days because then she'd be too real to him. He'd want to keep her and Sam knew he would fight all of his demons, even himself, to have her. One prolonged touch everyday was all he could allow between them.

Still, today was a new day and he had to say goodbye. He didn't want her worrying about him or looking for him. She'd done enough. Now it was time to let him go.

He squeezed her palm twice to get her attention. Clearing his throat, Sam started, "Mercedes, I appreciate you coming to see me, but there's something I have to tell you."

Sam watched as a scary calm descended over her. He frowned when she dropped his hand and raised her eyebrows. Folding her arms, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, saying, "Please tell me this has nothing to do with what the nurses told me earlier." Not waiting for his answer, she continued, "Oh yeah, they told me all about how you refused care at the veterans center and wanted forms so you can go off on your own. Yeah, I know all about it."

Feeling oddly defensive, Sam sputtered, "Well it's my life and my business"-

"Wrong!" she stated. "You walked into my museum during my shift. I drove you here in my car and spent my time watching you get well. I don't start things I don't finish, Sam."

"What the hell does that mean," he asked, sitting up and glaring.

Smiling sweetly, she responded, "It means you're coming home with me."

They fought. Rather, he fought. He ranted and listed valid, rational arguments, the first and majority of which included her personal safety.

"You don't know me from a bum on the street," Sam summoned patience to lecture, "Mercedes, I am a bum from the street."

"I have the right to take care of you, just as I would them," she debated, still smiling.

"You're missing the point! Who's going to take care of you?" he asked, suddenly tired. "I've been to war. I have a thousand triggers I haven't figured out and I don't know how to live in society. Who is going to protect you from me, Mercedes?"

"Sam, do you even understand how we got here?" When he shook his head no, she answered, "The only way I could get you to the hospital was for you to move yourself. You only moved after you thought it was to help me get to safety. In your most feverish moments, your foremost thought was my safety. If I had to bet on anyone from the streets, it'd be you. Of course, we'll have ground rules and talk about how to ease your transition, but I'm not giving you back to the streets. Not before I know you'll be okay."

"Why are you doing this, Mercedes? Just tell me that, please."

She turned her head and wouldn't look at him. "I want to believe things can change. I want to believe if something vital is taken from us, if we work hard and if given a little kindness, maybe it can make a difference. I want to know that I can make a difference. So, truly you would be helping me out. Okay, Sam?"

Sam's silence stretched as he searched her profile from a way to escape her goodness, her beauty. He looked down at the IV in his hand, terrified because his heart was in danger. He said, "Fine" out loud, but couldn't help thinking: _Who's going to save me from you, Mercedes?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Down, Chapter 5**

"_Don't let me go, Sam. Not yet," Mercedes whispered, holding him tighter. _

* * *

**Earlier that week**

"You did what?" Kurt exclaimed.

"Uh uh, Weezy" Santana chimed in with her favorite nickname for Mercedes, "that is unwise and ill advised."

Mercedes rolled her eyes. She knew Kurt and Santana would give her grief over her decision to move Sam into her apartment. She wouldn't have told them if she didn't need them. When she came into class, she tried to explain about Sam. Although, planning that particular conversation kept her awake all night.

_So the thing is…_

_Well, you know how…_

_Let me tell you how I found a homeless veteran at my job who ended up losing his arm and oh yeah, I'm taking him home? Thoughts?_

Finally, she decided she didn't need to explain anything to anyone. Sam was, at least for the moment, hers. She just needed a way to take care of him and that's where Kurt and Santana came in.

"Look I understand your concern," Mercedes soothed, "but he needs help. He doesn't have a place in society and he feels it. It's not just his disability; it's his fashion and his style. When I found him, he had three shirts stuffed in a book bag. His hair, while cleaner, is still too long and he doesn't know what to do with it."

"What about money, 'Cedes," Kurt asked, "from the sounds of things, it doesn't sound like he has much of it."

"None of us do, Kurt," she responded, "that's why I need the both of you to help me. Kurt, you can turn a dime into gold when it comes to fashion. I figured you could take him to the goodwill and maybe find a way to minimize the appearance of his lost arm, while giving him a functional wardrobe that he can wear without too much assistance. Santana," she said looking at her other friend, "I've seen you do more with a pair of scissors and a bottle of shampoo than more hairstylists do in a fully equipped salon. I'm asking you just to cut the man's hair so he can wash and take care of it himself. I'm asking the two of you to help me make his everyday tasks just a little easier."

Kurt sighed and rolled his eyes, saying, "Well, I do like a challenge. Fine, I'm in. I may be able to design a handi-capable line. He may just be my new muse."

"Whatever," Santana said, "but if he hurts you, I will personally take him out. Understand?" She flinched in disgust when Mercedes clapped in joy and forced her into a hug. "Okay, Weezy" she said, frantically patting her friends back. "Okay, let go now. No, Kurt. Do not come over here," she exclaimed as Kurt came over to join the hug. "You know I hate group hugs." They squeezed harder. "Alright! All this love is making me itchy. When do we start?"

* * *

**Wednesday Morning**

Sam wasn't going down without a fight or at least a plan. He wanted answers and he wasn't budging until they worked this out. Mercedes helped him check out of the hospital after receiving instructions for his home aftercare. She nodded and listened to the instructions on how to change his bandage and stcking if the need arose and when to look out for his nurse. Sam bore it in resentful silence, but when they arrived at her apartment building, he'd had enough.

"Sam," Mercedes said through the cracked window as she stood outside of the passenger side of her car, "for the fifth time, get out of the car and come upstairs."

"No."

"Let's go, Sam."

"Not doing it."

"Sam, if I have to pull you out of this car myself, you're coming upstairs."

"You're more than welcome to try, but I'm not leaving this car until we get a few things straight between us," Sam responded, looking straight ahead.

Muttering under her breath, Mercedes climbed back into her car and said, "Yes?"

Turning to look at her, Sam explained, "I appreciate what you're trying to do for me, but it goes against everything I believe in to accept your offer."

"Sam, we talked about this," she countered.

"No, we didn't," he argued. "You already work two jobs and pay for everything yourself. How can I sit here as a man and ask you to support me? To foot the bill for food and shelter for the both of us? No, we're going to work out an agreement. Tomorrow, I'm heading down to the state and I'm applying for veterans' aid and disability. You will accept money for rent and food as soon as it comes."

"Fine."

"Second, you will give me your word the moment either of us feels as if I'm a danger to you or out of control, I'm gone. You don't look for me and you don't follow me. You get yourself to safety, call the police and forget about me. Got it? I refuse to put you in danger," Sam looked her in the eyes. "Promise me or so help me, Mercedes, I will stay in this seat until all that's left of me is a skeleton."

"Sam, I want you to know no one has ever tested my patience as much as you do," Mercedes said, with an irritated smile.

Matching her look for look, Sam replied, "Likewise, Sugar. I'll have those promises, now."

"I'm surprised you didn't have them written up for me to sign," Mercedes muttered.

"No, I'll save that for when we have specific amounts and come to a time limit. I didn't want to push my luck," he said, grinning in anticipatory victory.

"Get out of my car, Sam," Mercedes ordered, "I promise, okay? Let's go."

They moved him in, backpack and all. To his surprise, Mercedes had a two bedroom apartment. The room she led him to was painted a soft blue and had animals decorating the walls.

_Not my business_, Sam thought, refusing to question the obviously unoccupied child's room or why Mercedes was working and paying the extra money for another bedroom.

"Make yourself at home," she said, not looking at him. "I'll get lunch started."

* * *

**A few hours later**

"Are you ready?" Mr. Schuester asked Mercedes as they stood outside of a modest home.

In a million years, she never thought the first answer on her tongue would be _no_. She didn't say it, though. Earlier, she'd left Sam at her apartment and she could tell he was glad for a few hours to adjust to his new surroundings. She'd gotten dressed, determined to look her best and rode almost an hour away to the address sent to her from Mr. Schue. Now, she found she'd misplaced the courage to answer his question. She avoided eye contact, focused on the ground and made herself nod. Her knees almost buckled taking the first few steps. Instead, she concentrated on taking one step and then another, listening for the click of her heels against the pavement, focusing on the movement of her dress. When they came to the door and Mr. Schue knocked, Mercedes admitted it to herself: she'd never been this scared. The thousands of times she'd envisioned this day, she never would have imagined she'd be terrified to see her little boy.

They were though the door. _Nice carpet_, she thought, unable to raise her eyes. She felt Mr. Schue take her arm and lead her to the couch. She sat, but she didn't hear a word they said. A part of her was curious about Isaiah's foster mother and that part grew until she couldn't stand it. She raised her eyes to look upon the woman sitting across the living room. She was a middle aged Asian woman named Tina. Her hair fell past her shoulders and her smile seemed kind. She wore a flattering green dress and white sandals. Mercedes looked down at her own second hand heels and black dress and refused to feel bad.

Tina rose from the couch, saying "I'll go get Isaiah."

Mercedes didn't know what to do with her eyes or her hands. Then, Tina was back. She walked towards them holding Isaiah's hand. Mercedes' world stopped and all for a little boy with unruly curls, light complexion and a shy smile. He held a little Mickey doll in his right hand and wore little jean shorts, a blue short-sleeve shirt with a blue and green patterned sweater vest.

"Go say hi," Tina said to the child.

He toddled over and stopped at Mercedes knees. He looked up and glancing back at her were perfect replicas of Mike's eyes. When she smiled, he grinned back in mischief and put his hands on her knees. Her throat was tight and tears threatened to blind her, but she stayed focused.

"Hi Isaiah," she choked out.

Smiling and completely unaware of the chokehold he had on her heart, Isaiah said, "Hi." Seeing the now free flowing tears on her cheek asked his mommy, "Are you sad?"

Sniffing, she said, "No. I've never been happier."

Hours later, chills ran through Mercedes' body.

She and Isaiah had played with Mickey while Tina explained Isaiah's care. Unbeknownst to Mercedes, Isaiah had slight troubles communicating. The state had been paying for him to see a speech therapist since he was two.

"He's a bright boy and the therapist doesn't think his fall has anything to do with his speech difficulties," Tina explained, "Isaiah has all the capabilities to do whatever he pleases, but unfortunately, he's stubborn. Over the past year, it's become more and more evident that he talks when he wishes. Other than that stubborn streak, he's a perfectly normal boy."

Mercedes sat on the carpet near Isaiah listening. She wanted to hold him, but was scared to take too many liberties. So through the hours of her short shift at the museum, she replayed the visit over and over.

He was so beautiful and doing so well. Who was she to take him away from good care? She had no doubts that there was no one in the world who loved her little boy more than she did, but could she give him the care he needed? Or would she mess up like the first time and somehow kill the light shining with him?

Doubt drove her home and ate at her insides. An old familiar feeling of helplessness curled in the pit of her stomach. Midway through her living room, it stopped her in her tracks. Her purse fell to the floor and she held her belly. She tried to make herself breathe and calm down, but panic gripped her.

_What am I supposed to do? I won't be able to do this. I won't be able to get him or keep him. How am I supposed to take care of him? How? They'll take him away if I mess up, but I don't know what to do. How can I make this work? I can't. I can't. I can't. I'm so tired of failing. I.. can't.. do.. this. _

An arm around her waist jarred her.

"Come on, Mercedes," Sam said, nudging her towards the couch. Seating her, he forced her head between her knees. "I need you to breathe with me, okay," he directed, rubbing her back. "That's it. In and out. That's good. Keep breathing with me."

They breathed until she stopped shaking and tears ran down her face. "Look at me, Mercedes. You're panicking," he told her. Wiping her face with his hand, he told her, "Tell me what's wrong and we'll fix it. No, don't shake your head at me. Talk to me."

Sam knew the signs of shock and panic. In the war zone, they were deadly conditions, but here in Mercedes' living room they were a wall Sam feared he couldn't conquer. Still, Mercedes needed him. His little warrior looked ready to fall apart, but Sam was not about to let it happen on his watch.

Unable to stand the sight of her tears, he brought her close to his chest. Even though he damn near pleaded with her to talk to him, she shook her head defiantly. "You're stubborn, but I'm not giving up on you, Mercedes. No, don't move away," he commanded, laying them down on the couch and keeping a strong hold on her.

"Your arm," she started.

"I'm fine and I'm not going anywhere, so you can just park it here with me, woman, until you're ready to talk. I won't let you fall apart," he told her. By slow, hesitant degrees he felt her relax and moments after that he felt her clutch his shirt.

"Don't let me go, Sam," Mercedes whispered, holding him tighter. "Not yet."


	6. Chapter 6

**Down, Chapter 6**

A few thoughts ran through Mercedes' head as she lay against Sam with his arm around her.

The first: _I need to wrap my hair. As good as this feels, I'm not waking up with dry scalp because of a panic attack._

The second: _This feels nice._

For once, Mercedes didn't have to shoulder the full weight of her life and her emotions and it felt good.

"Where did you get your strength from Sam," she wondered softly aloud.

"What do you mean," he asked her, chin resting on her head.

"Where did you get the strength to become a soldier and survive combat?"

"Well," he sighed, "surviving combat had a lot to do with luck and the men around me. I pretty much fell into being a soldier after stripping didn't pan out."

Mercedes blinked. Paused. Blinked again and looked at Sam, saying, "Huh?"

Raising his eyebrows, Sam replied, "Stripping. Letting it all hang out. Dropping it for dollars, you know?"

"Um," she said, mouth open.

"I had a stage name and everything," he said, hand up to nudge her head back to his shoulder. "When I was 16, I moved to Kentucky and needed quick money. I lied about my age and joined this male revue. They called me White Chocolate Thunder and I had moves. Ladies loved me. Wait," he said, feeling her start to shake and hearing a suspicious snort, "Are you laughing at me? Are you judging The Goodness?"

"No," she laughed, "not at all. How did you become a soldier, then?"

"When I moved back to Ohio, it seemed the logical thing to do after high school. There was this promise of a better future and all I had to do was sign up."

It didn't need to be said how that particular promise failed him. It wasn't hard to piece together how he ended up homeless and handicapped. Mercedes was tired of thinking about her own problems. She wasn't ready to explain her lack of a high school diploma, teen pregnancy, or absent child. She just wanted to lay here and talk about nothing.

"Some first night this was," she joked.

"We're getting better, though," Sam responded, "I'm not trespassing, you didn't have to break in here to take me to the hospital and everyone's limbs are intact and still attached… I'd say we're doing pretty damn well," he ended with a small laugh.

She laughed with him. "I'm taking tomorrow off, so I can take you around to the state buildings if you want."

"Sounds fine," he answered.

"Then maybe we could go for a spot of shopping, I have some things I want to look for at the Goodwill," she dropped in casually.

Sam's spider senses started tingling immediately. "Mercedes, what are you up to?" he asked dryly, not trusting her tone at all.

"Nothing," she exclaimed, "and if you so happen to want a haircut, well that can be arranged," she finished in a hurry, tucking her head on Sam's chin and closing her eyes.

Sam was quiet. She was up to something. He felt it all the way down to his big toes. _Wait and see_, he told himself, rubbing her back. There was, however, one thing he wanted to make clear. "Not cutting my hair," he mumbled.

"Well see," she whispered.

* * *

"Sam, this is Kurt. Kurt, this is Sam."

Mercedes made the introductions, blatantly ignoring the accusatory look on Sam's face. Choosing to look at Kurt instead, she was surprised to see her friend's eyes widened in admiring speculation.

_It makes sense_, she thought. Even with one arm, Sam still had a striking figure. He was six feet tall, about 170 pounds of pure muscle. He had broad shoulders and a strong chin. Last night certainly convinced her of his remaining strength. Even with his lengthy hair, his green eyes peered out confident and defiant as if daring the world to try him. She freely admitted never truly paying attention to his lips, but he had a miraculous pair for a white man. They were almost as full as hers. To be frank, Sam was kind of hot.

The two men shook hands and Kurt said, "When Mercedes invited me to this project, I never dreamed I would have so much to work with."

Mercedes gave it to the man; Sam didn't betray his surprise at all. No twitching or changed facial expressions alluded to how he was feeling. He just nodded at Kurt and said, "I'd appreciate any help you can give me."

When Kurt turned away and walked down the aisle, Sam bent down to Mercedes ear and whispered, "You set me up."

"Who me?" she asked wide eyed, playing at every shred of innocence she could muster in the face of her obvious guilt.

Sam bent his head and scratched his nose, trying to hide his grin. He worked his mouth trying to erase the smile escaping, but darn it all _she was cute_. Giving up, he laughed a little and gave her a playful shove with his elbow. "Yeah, you woman," he answered, walking up to Kurt. Not hurt at all, Mercedes laughed as well and caught up with the guys.

"The loss of your right arm is not a problem, Sam," Kurt explained, "Shirts can be tailored to close off the sleeve. Fit is our main concern. We want to emphasize your shoulders and your back which are by far your finest assets."

Up and down the aisle, Kurt examined and pulled t-shirts and button down shirts from the rack. "We want your clothes to be functional and not hinder your independence." Over the t-shirt and bandage Mercedes helped him to put on, Sam tried on different styles. He found that button downs were harder to maneuver, only because catching the left side took a lot of twisting and turning. T-shirts and sweaters were a lot easier to do on his own. Narrowing down his selection to four t-shirts and three sweaters, Sam took the pile from Mercedes and walked to the register.

He had $160 to his name. The stack of clothes cost $28. From the set of her mouth, he could tell Mercedes wanted to argue with him, but he wasn't having it. She gave him food, shelter and helped him with transportation. She'd given him an address and a way of helping the government help him support himself. Their visit to the state buildings had pretty much assured Sam he'd be getting disability payments. His veteran status had helped enormously with that. They'd set him up for food stamps and some transitional support until his disability began. He was not taking another dollar out of Mercedes' pocket.

Feeling slightly superior at spoiling her plans, Sam handed the money over. Grabbing the bag, he smirked at her and raised a victorious eyebrow at the way she rolled her eyes.

* * *

He wasn't grinning when they arrived at Mercedes' apartment and a Spanish woman named Santana armed with scissors and shampoo said, "I'm almost set up and then we can begin."

He was full out frowning when Mercedes took the bag from his hand, patted him on the chest and said, "Man up, Sam. It's free."

Following her, he said, "I thought we agreed I wasn't cutting my hair."

"I remember saying we'll see," she patiently countered with a smile, "I feel as if we've all seen your hair and the majority says we're cutting it."

"Okay, so the trick you pulled with the clothes was cute," he said, nodding at his own admission, "I can admit that and it was necessary, but I'm not cutting my hair."

"This is necessary too," Mercedes insisted.

Squaring his jaw, Sam said, "Not happening."

"Why not, Sam", Mercedes asked, "It's for you. It's hard enough to wash your hair at the length it is, what if it grows longer? How are you going to take care of it then?"

"I just…," he started, finding the words hard to say, "I feel exposed without my hair."

"Sam, you have a very nice face," Mercedes told him, "it'd be a real shame to hide it."

He grinned, joking, "So you think I'm handsome, huh?"

Raising an eyebrow, Mercedes challenged, "I think you could be… with a haircut."

* * *

Later that night, Sam sat on the couch, rubbing his extremely shortened hair and shook his head at himself.

_Michael Jackson told you that girl was Dangerous. The Fresh Prince made it clear that girls were nothing but trouble. The men of Bel Biv Devoe warned you to never trust a big butt and a smile and what did you do? I'll tell you what you did Samuel Evans_, he chastised himself, _you got lost in the Big Browns._

Sam thought of the battle earlier for his hair. He was against all of it, but before he knew it the two women had him cornered, seated in a chair with an apron around his shoulders. He dodged Santana's hands as they tried to push him under the water. He was dry and in the midst of standing up when he felt Mercedes' hands on his shoulders. He looked up and their eyes locked.

He was trapped.

She ran her fingers through his hair and said, "Trust me?"

And damn it all, he did. He trusted her. So he let her nudge him back into his seat and tilt his head until water flowed down on his hair. He allowed her to run her fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes and he liked it when she scratched his scalp softly and massaged his temples.

She washed, rinsed and repeated.

Sam was ashamed to admit he had to work hard at uncurling his toes when she was done.

She made him weak. No, she turned him into putty. He knew it for a fact as she toweled his hair because he didn't argue at all when she asked, "Okay?"

All he could say was, "Not too much off the top, please."

Sighing at his own foolishness, he flipped the channels until he came to the Jeffersons.

"Sam, could you turn that down please," Mercedes said, coming out into the living room. Immediately, he shook his head and swallowed a smile as he turned the volume down, because not only was her hair wrapped up tight in a sailor moon silk scarf, but she wore a Spongebob Squarepants pajama set.

"Is that the Jeffersons," she asked, coming over to the couch and sitting down.

"Yeah," he answered. Feeling gracious, he offered her a corner of his blanket.

Accepting, she placed it around her and held her head on her hand, "George Jefferson is one of my top ten sex symbols," she said offhandedly.

"Wait, what?" he asked, caught off guard, "George 'I have a halo as a hairstyle, short and middle aged' Jefferson is sexy to you? Explain."

She laughed and rolled her eyes, "You have to look past the physical, Sam. George is a symbol of hope. He made it out of his circumstance without changing who he was or what he stood for. He never swapped out his way of talking and he stayed with the woman who was down for him from the start. Look at Weezy. Most men would have exchanged her for someone skinnier, lighter skinned with straighter hair. Not George."

Sam didn't know what to say, so he reached up to rub on his short hair again.

"Would you leave your hair alone?" Mercedes asked, reaching up to grab his hand.

"I can't believe you suckered me into cutting it," he griped.

"I didn't sucker you," she debated, "and it looks really good by the way."

No that he was ready to admit he cared and in spite of the fact that he knew he shouldn't ask, Sam went there anyway, "Do I look as good as George?"

Mercedes was quiet as she looked him up and down, "You're starting to, Evans."

_A/N: just a tiny break from the angst. I felt like I owed you guys a breather ;-) Thanks for sticking with me and for all your love and support. _


	7. Chapter 7

**Down, Chapter 7**

_"Sam, we need your help. It's Mercedes."_

* * *

"Tell me about Mike, Mercedes."

From her seat across from her counselor, Mercedes looked up. For the thousandth time, she explained, "No. I don't talk about Mike."

Dr. Shannon Beiste was a woman with a kind face and a core of steel. She had a gentle but bulldogged way of urging her patients to open up and share their inner selves. "Call me Beiste," she told her patients. Every month all of her juvenile patients, about fifteen in total, met in a group session where Beiste gave an inspirational speech. Personally, Mercedes thought Beiste would have been a fantastic football coach with her passion and flare for analogies.

"You know, Mercedes," Beiste began, "for two years we have covered a lot of ground and disabled a few of the more destructive behaviors. I've noticed that in all of our meetings and time together, you never talk about Mike. I feel that he is another trigger for your pain. Let's disarm that trigger."

"No thank you," Mercedes answered. There was no heat or attitude behind the answer, but Mercedes' resolve was absolute.

Beiste tried another tactic. "Then tell me this. What comes to mind when you think of Mike?"

"I think of the day I gave birth to Isaiah," Mercedes responded. "I hadn't heard from Mike for a couple of weeks. The last thing I received from him was a letter telling me he loved me and he misses me so much. My water breaks. I'm in a hospital room by myself for hours with a letter to keep me company. I don't know any of the breathing techniques because I had no one to go to Lamaze class with me. I'm cold. My body is tearing itself in two to give birth to our child, but I'm holding on to this letter for dear life. For six hours, I held on. After Isaiah was born and the nurses took him away, I realize it's is gone. I'm moving the covers and using the last of my strength to find this letter. That's when I see it on the floor and of course it's out of my reach. I try anyway. I'm crying and stretching, desperately trying to reach this crumpled up piece of paper. Luckily, a nurse comes in, sees me distraught and hands it to me. I'm shaking because I'm so happy to have it. I open it because all I want to see are those few words: I love you and I miss you. In my mind, I want to share our baby's birth with Mike. Re-reading those words was as close as I could get to doing that. When I opened the paper, there were no words, just a mess of ink. The moisture from my hands had seeped into the paper and the ink ran. Honestly, I felt stupid. I reached, stretched and used all of my strength trying to hold onto what amounted to nothing."

"How do you feel about that incident now, Mercedes," Beiste asked.

Clear eyed, Mercedes lied, "Nothing. I don't feel anything about that time in my life or Mike."

* * *

_Ninety nine. One hundred._

Breathing through his mouth, Sam finished his last push up. Good thing the Army trained him well in one handed ones. He refused to fall to the floor after completing the last set. He rose to his feet and wiped the sweat from his brow. Looking around the veteran's training facility, he saw the disabled, the crippled and the injured. All war vets like him, all fighting for some kind of future.

"Evans?"

It couldn't be. Sam recognized the voice, but it couldn't be from one of his best friends from the squad. So many memories came back: endless pranks, singing in the shower, and dreaming of life outside the desert.

"Sam, is that you?"

Almost afraid to turn around and be disappointed, Sam saw him. Artie.

It was him, but it wasn't. Sam was used to Artie standing a half foot shorter than him. Sam was used to Artie standing. The man in the wheelchair before him was new. Then, Artie grinned at him and opened his arms wide. "We're on the other side," Artie crowed. "We both made it. We're alive, Sam."

Sam laughed, because wasn't that their one hope? During years of training camps and active service, the two men dreamed endlessly of life outside the army.

"We should have been more specific Artie," Sam said jokingly, eyeing Artie's legs and his lost arm. "We should have asked to be alive and intact."

Artie laughed and said, "True that!"

A part of Sam gave in at that moment. It was the part that had forgotten to be grateful. The part of him that forgot while he was at war, he was also fighting for life. His life. He closed the gap between where he stood and his friend's wheelchair and gave his comrade a one armed hug.

Artie slapped him on the back and said, "I missed you, man. I'm glad we made it out". Sam told no lies when he said, "Me too."

* * *

The test for her GED was in a week. Mercedes was very quietly panicking. "Math is the devil. Jesus be a graphing calculator," Mercedes prayed. Failure was not an option. There were no more options. Passing this exam would bring her a step closer to getting her son back.

"Ladies, let's not freak out," said a hyperventilating Kurt, "by Gaga we can pass this test."

"No way Kurt," Santana rebutted, "when I'm nervous I can barely think in English let alone write in it."

"I'm going to go home and I'm going to study," Mercedes vowed.

'We could all go home and study our brains out," Santana said, "or we could take this night to de-stress. I could use a drink. Couldn't you guys use a drink? If you love me, have a drink with me!"

Neither of them knew of Mercedes' struggle with alcohol. Santana's request was reasonable to anyone who hadn't been a juvenile alcoholic. Yet Mercedes hesitated to say no. _I've been on the right track for two years_, she thought. _I want to stop thinking for just one night. One drink couldn't hurt._

"Yeah," she told her two friends, "a drink sounds good."

It was good. It felt good. The bartender was nice. He made her drinks that weren't on the menu and let her name them. She chatted and flirted with people around them. As the drinks flowed, her spirit felt freer and her laugh louder. One shot of whisky hushed her stress. Two more and her conscience went to sleep after two years of endless guilt trips. A few more drinks and her past disappeared. It never happened. She never dropped out of school. Never had a teen pregnancy. None of it. She was free. Finally for the first time since her sophomore year of high school, she was just Mercedes. All of the mental noise in her life was gone.

So why wouldn't her friends leave her alone?

"Come on, hun," Kurt cautioned, "you don't need another drink. Let's have some water."

"You need to stop," Santana warned.

_Leave me alone. Give me this_, she wanted to beg. _Give me this time. All I want is this night to just be free. I promise tomorrow I'll pick up my guilt. Let me laugh and drown in something other than my sorrows. _

They refused. Santana snatched the drink from her hand. Kurt placed his finger over her mouth and tried to shush her. They tugged on her arms and pulled her from the bar. The car ride was uncomfortable. Santana preached at her while Kurt seconded everything. She was pretty much deaf to their words, but she clearly heard Kurt call Sam.

"Sam, we need your help. It's Mercedes."

"Why would you call him?" she asked.

"Somebody has to check on you tonight," Santana said. "What if you get sick or blackout? I need to know you'll be taken care of tonight."

It was hard for Mercedes to make it up the stairs. Her balance was off, but she made it upstairs. Sure enough, Sam stood in the doorway and if he still had two arms, they would have been folded across his chest.

"I've got her guys," he told them.

"Look out for our girl," Kurt said. He kissed her on the cheek and said, "We love you." Santana hugged her.

Mercedes' heart felt hard though. They didn't understand. She shook her head and went into her apartment. She tossed her keys on the coffee table and took off her jacket. She turned around and Sam was leaning against the door, watching her.

"What?" she asked.

"I'll watch over you tonight. If you get sick or anything," he said. "I'll be here for you." There was no judgment in his face at all.

"I'm fine, Sam. I can take care of myself," she said, blinking at him.

"I know," he responded. He came over to her. "You're a grown woman, Mercedes. If you want to talk about it, then we can. All I'm going to do is help you into bed and make sure you're okay."

When she almost tripped going to her room, he held her elbow. He sat her on the bed and went down on his knees to remove her boots.

"Jeans may not be the best choice to sleep in. I don't want you to get sick," he said, green eyes gazing up at her.

Her throat felt thick. "I have sweatpants in the drawer over there," she got out. It wasn't very specific, but Sam found them after a few tries. "Don't look," she ordered. Mercedes tried to get her skinny jeans off, but couldn't shake them from her ankles.

"Let me help you," he offered.

"I can do it." She bent down and almost fell.

"Lean on me. It'll be easier," he told her, coming to stand by her with her sweat pants in his hand. Tired of watching her struggle, he stopped her. "Sit down before you hurt yourself." As gentlemanly as possible, Sam bent down again and stripped the pants from her ankles. He placed her feet in the sweat pants one foot at a time.

"Help me pull these up," he told her.

"I got it," she said, pushing his hand away. When her sweatpants were secured around her waist, Sam glanced up at her. He saw her tears.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," she answered, shaking her head. "Just go away. Thank you and good night."

He grabbed her hand. "Talk to me, Mercedes. You go out and get wasted. Your friends were worried enough to call me and now you're crying. Now, I'm worried. Tell me what's wrong."

"I just want to go to bed" was the teary response.

"Fine." Sam went to the head of the bed and pulled back the covers. He left the room without another word.

Mercedes climbed in her bed and pulled the covers over her face. She felt sorry, but she was also relieved. Sam made her wish for things she needed to be able to live without. She couldn't handle someone being kind to her right now. It made going back to being on her own feel unbearable, but moreover, she wanted it. More than anything, she wanted to hold his hand and lean on his shoulder. She wanted him to hold all of the parts of her together, but she couldn't let herself feel those things. She had to be her own glue.

Sam came back with a plate in his hands and a bottle of water tucked in the crease of his elbow. He placed it on the nightstand by her head. "I brought you some crackers and some water to settle your stomach if you need it later." He dug in his pocket. "Here are some Pepto Bismol tablets if you start to feel sick and some Advil if your head hurts before morning. I'll check on you throughout the night, but I wanted you to have some stuff close at hand."

He was upset that she didn't want his help, but that was his own issue. He would do his part and make sure she was okay. Before he made it to her door, he heard her say his name and sob.

"Sam."

She said it again.

"Sam."

He crossed over to her bed, sat down and pulled the covers from her face. Teary brown eyes looked up at him. He brushed her hair back from her face. Her hands came from beneath the covers to clutch at his.

"What's going on, Mercedes?"

"I just wanted time. I wanted time to breathe," she sobbed, face pressed into his hand. "There's so much that I need to fix… and no room for mistakes. I'm doing my best to stay afloat, but I… am… drowning! How am I supposed to do this?"

Sam watched in agony as she curled into a ball and cried. Sighing, Sam climbed on the other side of her and pulled her against his chest.

He held tight to her until she calmed somewhat. He kissed her head and tried his best to soothe her. "Shh, Mercedes. It's okay. You don't have to do it alone. Whatever it is we'll figure it out."

"You don't understand, Sam," she whispered against his chest. "I have to get my son back."

_A/N: thanks for the support. Trying to find a groove. _


	8. Chapter 8

Down, Chapter 8

_I have to get my son back. _

As he sat on the couch the next morning, the words circled through Sam's brain. He felt conflicted, limited… sad. Leaning back, he did a soft rub on his bandages. His shoulder hurt today. His stitches irritated him and his nerve endings ached. Physically, he knew he was fine. There was no infection like the last time, but the loss of his arm hurt more this morning than it had in a while.

Because there was nothing he could do to help Mercedes.

He couldn't help but think: _A year ago everything would have been different._ A year ago, he'd been a soldier. Strong. Whole. A hero. A man who made a daily difference in the lives of those who needed him.

Now, he was everything he'd never wanted to be. He was a man who couldn't help the person who meant the most to him.

Last night, she'd cried in his arms. Mercedes didn't cry hysterically or uncontrollably. Her tears were quiet, thick and slow. She cried as if her body pulled each tear from a well deep within her soul. All Sam could do was hold her tight enough to contain some of her pain. She tried speaking, but the words wouldn't come. Helpless eyes looked at him and cut his heart.

_Damn it, Ms. Pretty. I would give anything to help you… anything not to be handicapped for you. _

The truth felt it like an anvil to the pelvis. He had a few contacts in the army who could maybe do him a favor and help out. If that didn't work, Artie surely knew someone. Still, Sam wanted to be her hero. He wanted to stand by her and be the one who handled this for her. The fact that this was now physically impossible crushed him.

"Sam?"

He turned as her voice reached him. She stood in the living room, feet bare and head down. Her curls hid her face.

_I love her. Lord, I love her so much. _

"Hey," he said, standing to face her. "How do you feel?"

"Raw," she said, her voice rough. "You never… you never said anything about what I told you last night."

_I have to get my son back._

The ghostly words moved between them.

After saying it, Mercedes saw Sam stiffen and clench his fist, but he didn't say anything.

_Say something. _His silence filled the room. Fear rooted in her gut and worked its way up her body so Mercedes tasted the old cocktail of her shame and anxiety. _Sam, say something. _The thought that Sam would leave her because of her secret tapped against her heart. She didn't want that. More than anything, Mercedes did not want Sam to leave her.

So she walked over to him. She couldn't look at him, but she grabbed his shirt and held on to him. She forced out the words, "Say something, Sam. I have a son. That isn't here. That I have to get back and you have to say something because I'm scared. I'm scared I won't be able to do it. I'm scared I'll fail. I'm scared… I'm scared if you know what a failure I am…" She couldn't make herself finish. The words _I'll lose you too_ stuck in her throat.

His arm came around her and he squeezed her hard. "Stop. I would do anything for you, Mercedes. Anything. The fact that I can't march out of here and rescue your son is eating me up."

She paused. _Rescue?_ Smiling sadly, she tucked her head under his chin. "I wish I was deserving of someone like you." Reaching up, she covered his mouth and said, "Let me finish."

_I'm going to stay in his arms for as long as I can,_ she thought. _I'm sure after he knows the whole truth, he won't ever want to hold me again_. "I got pregnant when I was sixteen, Sam. I dropped out of high school and I never received my diploma. No one has my son," she said into his chest.

Sam felt her sigh against his shirt.

"There's no one to rescue him from," she continued. "He's a ward of the state because of me. Because I was a functioning alcoholic by the time I was eighteen. Because I was negligent and… he got hurt because of who I was at the time and the fact that I wasn't able to be a better mom. I tried though. I'm still trying. I'm taking the test for my GED this week and I'm seeing a counselor. It's just been a little overwhelming. I'm doing what I've always done. I break under too much pressure."

She waited for his judgment, his reaction, and his disgust. She knew any minute now he'd let her go and leave. She wasn't ready for it though and couldn't make her fist release the hold she had on his shirt. When he shifted slightly away from her, every fiber inside of her said no. When he kissed her forehead and said, "You're so brave. To do this all by yourself, to keep fighting. You're so brave, Mercedes," she shook in shock.

"Didn't you hear me?"

"I listened to you," he enunciated. "I'm listening to you. Every soldier knows what it means to pick yourself up and keep trying after not doing so well. That takes heart. I listened to the lack of support and the lack of the presence of your son's father in your story. It sounds like you're doing a lot of this alone. That takes strength. Most of all, I listened to the fact that after everything, you're facing yourself honestly. You could have lied to me. You could have made excuses. That is courage. Mercedes, I don't know a handful of soldiers with as much bravery as you."

_You can't be real, Sam. Someone like you can't be real._

Sam felt her wrap her arm around him and tiredly sink into his body. "I believe in you, Mercedes" he told her, rubbing her back.

"For how long" she asked.

"Far longer than forever." Sam knew it as soon as he said it that he wasn't going to let go of her. Ever. In his eyes, he wasn't anything special, yet he loved this little warrior with all of his heart. Someway, he would find a way to help her and support her. Not because she needed his support or him, but because he needed to be there for her. Maybe he couldn't be her hero, but no more harm would come to her on his watch.

"I think we're going to have to call Kurt and Santana though," he said, "it sounds like a serious talk slash study session is in order."

* * *

"Mama, why didn't you tell us?" Santana asked, holding Mercedes' hand.

She hadn't told them about her son. She wasn't ready for that just yet, but at Sam's urging she'd told Kurt and Santana about her teenage struggles with alcohol.

Sam told her, "You can't be a one woman army, Mercedes. At some point, you need your friends to help guard your back against your enemies, especially if that enemy is yourself."

"Where'd you learn that? The Army?" she sassed him.

"No," he shot back, "I learned that lying in a hospital bed with a stubborn angel keeping watch over me."

"Fine," she said, "I'll get my phone." Secretly, she rolled her eyes. Trust that man to turn her own lessons against her. _Rude_, she thought.

She called her two best friends and they came loaded with books and concern.

Looking at Santana now, she shrugged unable to put words to her feelings. Yet, she marveled at the lack of judgment on her friend's face. Kurt came to sit beside her. He laid his head on her shoulder and said, "We all have pasts, Mercedes. I was a young, troubled gay teen once. I know all about trying to forget and doing things you regret in the process." He looked up and she saw something Kurt never really allowed the world to see: Pain. "But we're fighters, darling. In fact, we're Musketeers. All for one and one for all."

"Let's study guys," Mercedes said, "we have an exam to pass."

"Nah," Santana said, "forget passing. We're kicking that test's ass."

* * *

**Later that week**

"I need help with something," Sam said to Artie. The duo was exercising at the Veteran's Facility.

"What's up?" Artie asked, placing his weights on the bench beside him.

"I need to do something special for Mercedes."

Artie leaned forward in his chair and said, "You know, you have yet to introduce me to her. I just feel like as your best friend I ought to at least meet this mystery woman."

Sam eyed his friend carefully. He didn't need to think about his answer, but he paused in an effort to express himself clearly. "Hell no," he told his best friend in the whole world.

"What?" Artie laughed.

"No bro," Sam said, shaking his head forcefully as he began his lunges. "Not happening. In fact, I take that back. You can meet Mercedes the day after Never Ever."

"Dude, why not?" Artie said, mouth agape.

"I know you. I've met you. I've seen you operate," Sam said, giving his friend the look. "Ain't no way you're getting next to my lady." Years in the Army had shown Artie to be a womanizer and a freak. Any man with half a brain and love in his heart should never ever trust two people: Artie Abrams and Trey Songz. They might not be bad people and could be awesome friends, but at some point you know what they do and what they're capable of. Sam was not about to let Artie to anything to, with or around Mercedes. Not happening. Nope. Not sorry.

"See, that's selfish," Artie answered. "What if y'all get married? I'm your best man. I'll have to meet her eventually."

Sam thought for a moment and then his face brightened, "Nope. That's why Skype was invented."

"You're being ridiculous," Artie said. "What am I going to do? Steal your girl? Shame on you, man. After everything we've been through, you'd think you'd have a little faith in your boy. In me! I saved your life. Well, not really, but we didn't die together. Does that count for nothing?"

Sam wasn't buying any of it, but he needed help. Mercedes took her test tomorrow and Sam needed Artie's help. "Fine," Sam said, but he was watching his friend with lethal eagle eyes.

* * *

**Day of the Test**

"You got this," Sam whispered against her forehead. "You got this. I believe in you, Mercedes." He squeezed her hand, trying to inject love, luck and pride into his every touch. "I'll be right here when you come out."

The test was a full day. She was nervous, but he knew she was a fighter.

"Okay," she said. "I'm scared."

"But prepared?" he prompted.

Looking into his eyes, she responded, "But prepared."

"Go, Mercedes," he told her.

She took a step back. Then, a step forward.

She stepped into Sam's body and onto her tiptoes. She pressed her lips to his.

Sam's existence paused.

Against his lips she whispered, "It helps to have you here, Sam."

Then she was walking away, graphing calculator in hand, and disappearing into a classroom.

_I gotta call Artie_, Sam thought. _As soon as I can feel my legs again, I'll call Artie. We have a lot of work to do._


	9. Chapter 9

**Down****  
Chapter 9 **

"Flowers?" Artie asked.

"No," Sam shook his head.

"Chocolates?"

"Nah."

"Cards, candy, teddy bear?"

"No, no, no," Sam sighed. They sat together in Mercedes' jeep. Sam thumped his head back. "I've been racking my brain all night, Artie. Mercedes deserves something special. I owe her everything and I want to do something… I don't know…life changing for her."

Artie thought for a moment. He looked at his friend and knew Sam had been stung hard by the love bee. He might not admit, but that didn't mean he wouldn't act on it. "What would you be willing to give for her?"

"Everything." Sam's tone was resolute.

"Then, I have an idea. It's crazy. I mean absolutely insane, but it might just work."

* * *

_I won't fail._

_I refuse to fail._

Mercedes' mind was tired, but she refused to give up. Facts, short answers, essays and equations flew from her pencil as she worked her way through her exam. During the halfway mark, the test takers were given a half hour break. In the hall, she met with Kurt and Santana.

"Someone please," Kurt complained, "tell me the purpose of the Quadratic Equation. When am I going to use it? How is it going to help me? Whoever put letters in math equations should be shot. Not killed, but momentarily harmed because of karma alone."

"Tell me about it," Santana seconded, "this test is stressing me out so much I think I threw some Spanish in my English essays."

"I'm not built for this life," Mercedes said, placing her arms around her two best friends, "I named Jesus as the reason for all of the Social Studies questions. What happened to Pangaea? Jesus. Gravity and evolution? Jesus again."

The three friends laughed.

"I'm happy to see you're laughing, but are you holding up okay, mama?" Santana asked.

"I'm good," Mercedes answered. "I know why I'm doing this and I refuse to fail."

Mercedes thought of the messages she received that morning. After kissing Sam goodbye, her phone buzzed. She had two messages from Tina. The first said: _A little birdy told us you were going for your GED today. We just wanted to say…_

The second message was a picture of Isaiah with a sign that read: **Good luck!**

He was smiling and had his Mickey doll clutched in his arms. His curls were ruffled and his dimples were deep. Her baby was beautiful and he wished her luck.

That's all she needed. Mercedes knew she was blessed. She sent a thank you text to Tina who proved to be an angel. Although she was wildly curious why Tina would be so nice, she didn't take it for granted. Instead, she buckled down. She focused and she did her damnedest to pass the exam and get her GED.

_I'm doing this for you, baby Isaiah… and maybe a little for me too._

* * *

**3 hours later**

Kurt drove Mercedes and Santana home.

"So Mercedes," Kurt asked looking in his rear-view mirror at his friend, "when are you gonna come clean?"

Mercedes looked up in confusion. "Come clean about what?"

"About Trouty Mouth girl," Santana quipped. "I've never seen lips like that on a white boy and speaking of lips… I saw you guys this morning."

Kurt frowned at Santana and asked, "Saw what?"

Santana leaned over and glanced teasingly at Mercedes, "She gave our boy Trouty Mouth a chocolate kiss. I think I saw his knees weaken."

"Shut up, Satan," Mercedes interjected, laughing.

"Oh wait a minute," Kurt said, "I thought you guys were just friends."

"We are!" Mercedes exclaimed.

"Uh uh," Santana put in, "that was more than a friendly kiss. Friendly kisses don't make your eyes cross. I swear he grew a third leg if you know what I mean."

"Santana!"

"What?" Santana refused to back down. "At some point, Mercedes you have to be selfish. If the one armed soldier with broad shoulders and ungodly lips is what you want, then take it. Why fight it? For some reason, you let him behind all of those defenses you think no one knows about. I see the way you look at him. More than that, I see the way you trust him. Why not steal some joy for yourself and let G.I. Joe knock some of the dust off that old heart of yours?"

"I think she has a point, Mercedes," Kurt said, "you deserve it. Plus, if you don't then I will."

Laughing, Mercedes responded, "And what do you mean by that?"

"Look, I love me some Blaine. Madonna knows I do," Kurt paused, "but Sam looks like hot fudge on cold ice cream, topped with nuts and a cherry. I want it real bad and you know I'm allergic to dairy."

"I can't with y'all," Mercedes cried, "I'm attracted to him. We haven't done more than kiss, but I admit there's something special about him. In the mornings, I always wake up before him. His arm is always around my waist and his face is resting against my back. His body is warm. I feel safe, but it's more than that. As soon as his eyes open and he sees me, he smiles. He's not disappointed or discontent. He's happy to see me and it's almost as if seeing me was the best thing that could happen to him."

Her friends saw the way her face softened and her voice lowered. Santana saw how she gripped her pants and how her breathing became irregular.

"Have you told him?" Santana asked.

"Told him what?" Mercedes glanced up.

"That you're kind of in love with him," Kurt said gently.

"I- I mean, I'm not," Mercedes sputtered. She was not in love with Sam. She wasn't. Was she? So she asked her two friends, "I'm not sure if I know what being in love is like. I thought I knew a long time ago. I thought I was in love once and that the boy I loved returned my feelings. In the end, I was left alone. The feelings I had for him don't seem to fit Sam."

"First, you said boy. Sam is a man," Kurt responded.

"Also," Santana helped, "don't compare Sam to a memory. It isn't fair to you. Are you the same person you were back then?"

"No," Mercedes answered. "Not at all."

Santana laid her head against the headrest and looked at her friend. With a smile, she said, "Then my love, figure out what you want and reach for it. If it so happens that it's Sam, maybe he'll reach for you too."

* * *

"Okay, let's see here" Artie looked around, "we have candles, some R&amp;B playing softly in the background. Sam did you do everything I told you too?"

"Yeah, Artie," Sam said nervously, "I mean it wasn't easy doing the dishes one handed, but I got them done and took out the trash. I'm still not quite sure why you made me lay this month's bills on the table after I paid them."

"You wrote 'Paid' on them, right?" Artie asked.

"Yeah Artie, I even spread them neatly on the table like you told me to," Sam responded.

"Trust me, women like two things. Ambiance and security. You want to keep a woman happy light some candles and pay the bills. It's never failed me before."

"Are you sure about all of this," Sam asked for the hundredth time.

Artie sighed, "I'm sure this is the craziest idea I've ever had, but if Mercedes is all that you say she is I'm sure she'll probably think you're at least the sweetest craziest man who ever lived."

Squaring his shoulders, Sam said, "Okay, she's going to be home soon. I have to get ready."

Artie did a little dance in his chair. "Ooh, this is going to be good."

* * *

"Sam," Mercedes called as she walked into her apartment. She stopped at the sight and smell of candles scattered around the room. Closing the door behind her, she walked over to the table to place her bag and coat down. Facing her were the cable and the light bill marked as paid.

"Hmm," she murmured, slightly tickled at the gesture. The apartment was spotless, the dishes done and the trash taken out.

"So you made it through the exam? Congratulations, Mercedes."

Smiling at the sound of his voice, Mercedes turned around. Hand in his pocket, Sam stood with his feet wide apart and shoulders back. She looked up at his eyes and there it was. The look. The happiness to see her and only her.

"Sam, this is beautiful," she told him as she stepped closer.

"Mercedes, I-"

"Wait," she said. "Before you say anything, I wanted to ask a favor. I wanted to ask before I lost my confidence."

He closed the distance between them so that their clothes brushed and their hands touched. Leaning down, he whispered into her ear, "Anything."

Licking her lips and raising her hand to clasp his neck, she whispered back, "Kiss me." Bringing his face closer to her, she breathed in his scent, saying against his lips, "Kiss me, Sam."

He was scared. For a moment, he felt like he was back in that museum where she found him dirty, wounded, dying and worthless. But Mercedes asked a favor of him and he would never be able to deny her anything.

He kissed her and she tasted like love. She was the balm for his broken humanity. Forgiveness for the lives he had taken and desire for a life of his own. Her tongue caressed his and her hands clutched him. She nipped his bottom lip and desire ran a sharp fingernail down his spine.

"What do you want from me?" he asked her.

"Touch me. Make love to me."

Her hands trembled, but somehow she found the courage to raise his shirt. He looked at her with disbelieving eyes as she kissed his chest and caressed the stump that used to be his arm. She actually wanted him.

"Mercedes," he groaned, wrapping an arm around her waist. Burying his face in her neck, he nuzzled and nibbled her flesh.

Grabbing his hand, she led him to the bedroom. Her nerves were tight as she put space between them to undress. She turned her back to him because she'd never been fully naked before a man. Mike's car was no place for nudity, not in the corners and parking lots they had to frequent for intimate moments. God, she was scared, but she wanted Sam. She wanted him so badly.

She took off her shirt and reached to unclasp her bra. She didn't hear the footsteps behind her, but she felt the heat of his chest against her back.

"You're not doing this alone. We do this together, Ms. Pretty," he said, wrapping his arm around her waist. With unknown sensuality, she raised her hand behind her to graze his neck. He sucked in air between his teeth.

"Look at us, 'Cedes," he said, turning them towards her mirror. She looked at herself, lips parted and bra straps down around her shoulders. She saw Sam kissing her shoulder with his strong hand caressing her stomach. She took her bra off. Grabbing his hand, she brought it to her breast and closed her eyes when she felt him squeeze.

He played with her, pulling and squeezing and her body pulsed in reaction. Her nipples grew hard and her reached up and turned her face to him for a kiss. "I want to taste you, Mercedes. Let me taste you, baby."

Sam was driving her crazy. For a man with one arm, he had them undressed and in bed in no time. His lips sucked and his tongue laved her down until she couldn't lie still.

There was no rush because Sam took his time.

There was no shame because she knew what she wanted.

There was only Sam surrounding her, holding her. Finally with her leg wrapped around his waist, he was inside of her. He made her forget her past. There was nothing but the sheets beneath her and her legs spread wide. She couldn't control her body pushing back against him and trying to take more of him.

Sam was a goner. He was drowning in her juices. He licked his lips, her essence still on his face. She hadn't let him stay down there long, her shyness making her blush. Now, he moved against her groaning at how she clenched his member tight. The sight of her coming apart almost did him in, but she owed him and Sam planned to collect.

Mercedes came until her eyes crossed. Taking deep breaths, she tried to find the energy to open her eyes as he still moved inside of her. He slowed and laughed against her lips.

"How do you feel," he asked.

"Limp," she responded.

"Baby can't move," he teased.

"Cut the crap, Evans. Give me five minutes," she laughed with her eyes still closed.

Seizing his opportunity, Sam slowly left her body. As she lay with her legs still spread, his mouth watered. Leaning down, he licked her core. Hearing her gasp, he wrapped his arm around her thigh and lapped at her.

This felt like falling in love. Kissing Mercedes at his leisure and having her move against his face. Showing her pleasure and hearing her cry his name. Her thighs tried to close against his head and he allowed it. He was a former soldier. Pressure was a good thing. When she tried to scoot up the mattress, he knew he had her.

Mercedes couldn't take anymore pleasure. Her toes were making gang signs and Sam's tongue had her on the run. When he finally came up for air, she glared into his face and said, "Sure you weren't a Marine?"

Sinking back inside her, he said, "I've never had trouble holding my breath." Laughing, they kissed sharing her juices.

Laughing while making love, that's what they would remember most as they rolled and twisted on the bed.

Above her, Sam looked into her brown eyes. _I love you_, he thought. Unable to keep his feelings hidden, he wrapped his arm around her and buried his face in her neck.

"I love you," he said as he came and gave her every part of him.

* * *

**The next morning**

Mercedes stared in the bathroom mirror and smilingly shook her head at her reflection.

_Look at you_, her inner voice joked. _Being nasty all night and now you don't know what to do with yourself. Legs sore and still want more. You even sacrificed your twist out for lust. For shame, Mercedes._

She felt good. She wasn't sixteen anymore and shame wasn't required here. She'd done nothing wrong and not having to feel guilt made her spirits soar. She walked back to the bed and look at her worn out lover.

Blond hair sprouted wildly from his head. His arm was flung out and the sheet barely covered him. She climbed on the bed and found herself immediately snatched to his chest.

"Good morning," she said to his bristly chin.

"Morning," he returned, kissing her puffy hair.

"Thanks for last night," she began and felt his chest begin to shake with laughter. Rolling her eyes, she qualified, "Not for that silly. I mean the candles and the paid bills. It was nice."

"You're welcome. I didn't get a chance to give you the whole surprise though," Sam said quietly.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Nerves made Sam stay quiet. They made him sit up and leave the bed. He pulled on his pants and left the room saying, "I'll start breakfast."

Frowning, Mercedes dressed in a long t-shirt and followed him to the kitchen. "Sure, breakfast would be nice, but I'm still curious about this surprise."

Sam stood at the sink. Eyeing her, he shook his head and began to make coffee.

"Sam, what's going on? Talk to me," she said. Going up behind him, she hugged him from the back. Masking her own insecurities, she asked, "Do you regret last night?"

"No," he said, "last night meant everything to me. You mean everything to me. That's why…" he trailed off.

"Why what, Sam?"

"I want you to marry me." Clasping her arm and looking down at her surprised face, Sam said seriously, "I'm asking you to marry me."


End file.
